Romance In A Box
by Pocky King Windy
Summary: Yaoi: Nagi x omi or vice-versa [Gift to Chris] - Nagi bumps into Omi, but things do not go ill. Meanwhile, Omi tries to find a way to quench the bitterness in Nagi's heart - and discovers something he never thought he would.


Romance In A Box

Disclaimer: Nope, the characters don't belong to me. Belongs to whoever created them. Your claim here, people!

Warning: Yaoi. If this isn't your box of chocolates, please turn back! Oh, and if you flame because you happen to be Yaoi-phobic, you're a retard. Rejoice! REJOICE! KUMBAYAAAAAAAH, KUMBAYAAAAAH! By the way, I'm also a mental case.

Dedicated: To Chris. Thanks for helping me out with the hit gift; I'd never be able to make poor Seymour's face look better than those in my stupid comics. I love you, man! …In a brotherly way, that is.

Note: To all those people who know this series well, and are reading this, note this: I know nearly NUTS about what I'm writing, whom I'm writing about… but that was some time before. I thought I could manage a week marathon of non-stop series, and now as a result, my head is swimming its way down to my sad behind. This explains why I hardly updated. Okay, okay, let me test out my newfound knowledge – Nagi wants to kill Ken for ramming his father down and Omi wants to hurt god's feelings. Did I get that right? Huh? Huh?? Am I a smart dude or what!

Plot Cockroach: This is my pet, the Plot Cockroach. He does all the dirty jobs for me, that said – it's thinking. Well, he thinks that chocolates go well with little boys… um, I'm also hungry, for one. Heh. Since one party is dark, and the other is bright, let's just use white and black chocolates. Enough said. Just read and tell me how bad it is.

Oh, and knowing what you like, Chris, it's Nagi x Omi, or, um, vice-versa.

________________________

It was a snowy day outside – cold, crisp; simply a frosty landscape painted on the streets of Tokyo city, and from the skies down fluttered small crystals of ice; small they were, as if cut into little six tipped stars of lace. The streets though, were crowded with many people, and above them a new moon waxed – the sign of a warmer spring to come. Warm lights danced from the windows of shops, lit up with the shades of yellow and gold that melted the surreal white of the streets outside.

His breath could clearly be seen in the darkness, steaming out like a cloud, in intrinsic designs. He walked on, his hands folded round neatly on his back as he walked, looking past at the shops, at an angle facing downwards. His dark locks hid his eyes from the prying ones of many, and for that he was glad. It never did much good to get close to anyone, or to let them know too much about you – and eyes were windows to your heart.

He needn't have worried, though. There wasn't too much a person looked for in a lone youth stalking down the frosty paths. And yet, a glance at him had much to give for pleasure. His features were too sharp to be that of a child's, although his slight frame betrayed his age. Clad in a loose sky blue sweater and fitting jeans, a sapphire colored scarf and gloves; he looked almost ordinary. The blue he wore brought out his eyes, despite the fact that no one saw them, as he looked at the starry, lighted shops through clear glass panes, and his hair was the color like that of a sunny dusk turning to night, like autumn leaves dead and crushed under boots. And he walked with a stealthy, noble dignity – his shoulders never slumped in any way, and his bearing was dignified. Yet, that stance was also filled with a piquant taste of bitterness, with certain hatred, strong, yet not entirely noticeable.

Oh, he hated the world, all right – he downright despised it. He despised what artificiality shown in the world's commercialism, how so many people flocked to it intrigued him. And he hated people, they were selfish, ignorant of everyone's feelings but their own, behind each smile was a dagger, polished with the blood of another. They did so many things that hurt God.

His Irish friend would probably be appreciative of this.

He favored the thought with a small smile, not the bitter and cold ones he usually gave, but neither was it the full and sweet one so commonly seen in children his age. It hadn't gone unnoticed though. A little girl, walking along with her mother, hand in hand, had somehow observed the spectacle. She tugged at her mother's sleeve timidly, glancing behind to look at him occasionally.

"Mummy, mummy! Look!" he heard the tiny whispers. "Is that an angel?"

The woman blushed; she knew that he'd heard. Hurriedly, she stopped the flow of her daughter's prying questions by wrapping an arm round her head. "Shush now… don't talk about people like that. Niisan doesn't like it."

But the woman herself could not stop gaping at this boy. He looked different, and yet alike all the other Japanese people. Perhaps he was mixed – she failed to see the eyes to fully determine it, though. The boy stalked swiftly away, without so much as to give a backward glance or smile in acknowledgement. He was altogether strange; she could not somehow put her finger into it. And, like a good many mothers, she decided to let the matter drop. The pair disappeared down the street.

The boy breathed deeply, inhaling the crisp wintry air. He stopped short in front of a colorful shop. Peering inside, he soon realized what had caught his attention. The shop was a sweetshop, and inside, there, right past the transparent glass, was littered with boxes of chocolates – one of every kind. There were those that were thick and dark, most probably bitter, some a milky brown, sweet, but not too so, and there were white ones, sugary, and they most likely tasted like milk and honey. He bit his lip.

Perhaps he had developed a craving for these sweets, or perhaps not. It was childish; he shrugged it off. He hardly tasted even so much of it – he didn't even like chocolate, for that matter. They just looked nice in boxes, wrapped about in ribbons. He started to walk away again, before he bumped head on into another person.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, his naturally good manners coming to play. He didn't look up, trying to avoid eye contact.

"I'm sorry too."

That voice. It was familiar.

Oh, my go --- 

His head snapped up instantly, even before his mind could finish that phrase. Dear god indeed! He had flung himself straight on, right smack against a Weiß assassin.

He began to falter backwards, about to scramble away before the others appeared. He was sure that they were lurking around, and probably had watched him for some time before taking action. Glancing around, he considered flinging some passers-by at the other youth; that might slow him down a little.

"Wait…"

His flow of thought stopped suddenly. He didn't know why he waited at that command… or plea, but he did, all the same. The other ran up to him, slightly flushed. "Wait."

He stood silently for a moment, a brow lifted. His eyes were clear for all to see. The other youth eyed him shyly, rubbing his fingers together. His gloves were woven and colorful. The dark haired youth fought an urge to smile.

"A… ano …Why is it that each time we see each other, it has to be a duel?"

"Because I'm a bad guy," his tone was bland.

"Maybe. You don't look very bad, though," he said.

"Evil hides its face behind a mask of sweetness," his answer was relatively simple, straight to the point. The other youth looked up, surprised at the coldness of his tone. They stared at each other for a moment, the dark haired youth drinking in the details of his encounter.

He was not much taller than he, and he had flaxen hair, odd in its way, but fairly attractive. It glowed round his head like a halo of molten gold, having vaporized into the air and forming a mist of that luminous shade. His eyes were an unfathomable blue, very much like his own, and yet so different. The dark haired youth realized that it was the blue in a shade of purity, the same one he had lost so long ago. Even the way the other youth dressed flaunted his seeming innocence. A light shade of cream blending in with his white woven fleece sweater, green and yellow striped scarf, with the colorful gloves to go with, and pale blue loose denims, matching the shade of his eyes. Innocent looking, yes – but he knew better. They were both killers.

The flaxen haired youth looked as if he were swimming in the gaze, in a land far away. He snapped back to reality when the dark haired youth moved suddenly to fold his arms around his chest. "So, where are the others?"

"Huh?"

"Your friends. You know - the man with freaky red hair, the dork and the one who dresses like a tart?" his tone was still as insipid and cold as it was moments before.

The flaxen haired youth sighed. He knew that it was a direct, challenging insult, flung at him and his imagined companions presence, but he found it hard to take it, coming from the other boy. They seemed so much alike – the only difference was their outlook and they way they handled their pressure.

"I came here alone."

"I see," he said, nodding slowly. "So did I."

"My name's Omi."

"Well, hello, Omi."

"Aren't you going to introduce yourself?"

"You might have been bugged," he smiled grimly, his hands still folded. He was glad that he did not have to fight, he being one with less fetish for violence that the rest of his teammates. But he decided to remain formal, unforgiving, in case that it might be a trap. Intelligent, careful – that was the way he was trained to be. This harsh training started on the day he was thrown out into the streets.

"… Sorry, but may I ask you a question?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you so bitter… so cold?"

The dark haired youth lifted a brow. Surprise; surprise. It was the first time anyone had had the guts to ask him this question, at least that directly. As hard as he tried, he failed to hide the smile that was slowly forming round his mouth – but it wasn't sweet. It was, as Omi had stated before, bitter.

"I don't know… perhaps I learnt to be like that, when I was younger."

The truth, stated in as few words as possible. It took Omi ten seconds to digest the information.

"Couldn't you relearn to defrost a little?"

The smile grew wider, and the dark haired youth started, to Omi's surprise and joy, to laugh. It was cold, like the frosty snow, but sweet, in its own way, shining with faint amusement. He stopped, and glanced over the older youth with sparkling eyes, a sparkle that rekindled its lost light. "You never hold back, do you?"

"Not really…" Omi blushed. "Actually, not really, around people I like. I gush."

"Hmm, yes, you do," the other youth swallowed the piece of information silently. "That makes you special, I suppose."

The red turned into a deeper shade or crimson.

"Well, I've always noticed you from afar, you know, when our parties have a clash. You're something like me, my age – perhaps we live similar lives, with the same kinds of pressure applied. I thought that we might click, were we able to meet and become friends."

The dark haired youth was silent. He finally spoke. "I'm afraid that's almost impossible."

Omi's smile faltered slightly.

"It's a dangerous line of work we're in. I simply cannot let us deceive our comrades like that. And we're different, you and I. As you said, I'm bitter, but you, you are sweet and innocent," he stopped short. Disentangling his hands from its fold upon his chest, he lifted it up to pat the flaxen haired youth's shoulder. "I said _almost_, anyway."

"Thank you!!!" Without thinking, the older youth reached out and grabbed him in a hug that squeezed his breath out. He then pulled away, his face bright, stained a light rose – and it wasn't from the cold. "I'm sorry… It's nice to have a friend that could understand you."

"Yes, I agree," he said, a slight smile playing yet again, on his seemingly frosty pale lips. Omi looked in wonder for a while. The boy seemed to be carved out of ice himself. He looked delicately enticing, and yet distant, aloof, and cold. He was like the dry ice that burned into one's skin when touched, and when the temperature rises, it simply vanishes into nothing. (1)

At long last the boy broke the silence again. "I must leave now."

"Will we meet again?"

"Perhaps."

He started off, walking slowly down the streets. Turning back, he looked straight into the older youth's eyes.

"Oh, and by the way, my name is Nagi. It's a pleasure to have met you, Omi."

___________________________

It was a frosty winter night. The streets though, were crowded with many people, and above them a new moon shone – the sign of a warmer spring to come. Warm lights flitted through the glass windows of shops, lit up with the shades of yellow and gold that melted the surreal white of the streets outside. Spring was already on its way, he knew – the air was a little warmer than it had been then. Already the snow on the streets were melting, enough to be packed into a slushy snowball and flung at others.

Nagi walked lightly, his auburn locks dancing in the breeze. He wore the outfit, same as before, reminiscing the day he had changed, the day his heart had thawed a little. Of course, the change was little, but in every way, every little helps. He made his way through the crowds, his eyes watching the world through his dark bangs. However, his lips still failed to curl up into that pleasant smile he had learnt to favor people with three weeks ago. As he walked past the people, he noticed a giggle of schoolgirls looking his way, and well, giggling. Rolling his eyes, he looked away. He heard their whispers, though.

"You know, my little sister once said that she saw an angel on this very street," one whispered. "I wanted to see it with my own eyes… I wonder… is he that angel?"

"Sure seems to me…"

"No, no, the other one – that one looks like an angel. You know, that gaijin with blond hair? He's so sweet!"

"Yeah, and that way he was holding that present?"

"Maybe it's for this guy… He, he…"

"Ooh!"

"Shush! Hey… he's looking our way… quiet now…"

Indeed he was. A gaijin with blond hair? They giggled and hurried away, whispering amongst themselves excitedly. Nagi turned away, and he continued strolling along in his slow pace. At last he reached the sweetshop. There, inside, right past the transparent glass, was littered with boxes of chocolates – one of every kind. There were those that were a milky brown, sweet, but not too so, and there were white ones, sugary, and they most likely tasted like milk and honey.

A little ahead, in front of the brightly shining windows, stood a youth, not much older than he. He was not much taller than he, and he had golden hair, odd in its way, but rather striking. It glowed round his head in an aura of molten gold, having vaporized into the atmosphere and forming a haze of that radiant light. His eyes were a profound azure, very much like his own, and yet so dissimilar. The dark haired youth realized that it was the blue in a shade of innocence, the same one he had lost so long ago. Even the way the other youth dressed flaunted his seeming purity. A light shade of cream merging in with his white woven fleece pullover, green and yellow striped scarf, with the vibrant gloves to go with, and pale blue loose jeans, matching the color of his eyes. Naive looking, yes – but he knew better. They were both assassins.

In his arms he cradled a brightly wrapped present. There were frills of ribbons trailing down the rectangular object, and he looked rather awkward and unsure of himself, even as he stood there, in the icy streets. The chill caused him to shiver slightly, but he soon forgot the cold as he caught sight of Nagi. He grinned, flushing slightly, a pale cherry on his slightly tan but clear skin. Happily he skipped up to meet the younger youth.

"Hey!"

"Hello."

"I've been waiting here for ages now… about a week ago, every night, same place, same time… I thought you wouldn't turn up…" he blushed redder when he realized that he had gushed out words he meant to keep secret. "Uh, well…" he fell silent.

"Hmm… a nice box you have there. Who is it for?"

"Oh!" he looked up suddenly – he had forgotten the box! "I'm sorry! It's… it's for you."

"For me?" Nagi blinked. So, Omi was waiting for him for nights in a row, a week ago, just so that he could give him a present? He looked at the older youth. He had actually braved the cold for him! Nagi felt slightly warmed inside. He favored the youth with a small smile. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Why didn't you come earlier, Nagi?" he asked timidly. Nagi looked at him and sighed.

"I was rather tied down for some time, lately," he replied, his breath was airy as he spoke. "I had a lot to accomplish, in so short a due time. Luckily for us, I decided to break from that daunting routine and asked time to screw himself."

"Why today?" Omi turned scarlet as he choked the next few words out, haltingly. "Is it… because it's Valentine's Day?"

Nagi blinked again. Valentine's Day? He had never thought about it… overlooked the date. He hadn't even realized that it was already February the fourteenth! He hated festivals; you see… he hated commercialism. To him, February the fourteenth was just another normal day. Why had he chosen that day?

Or did Fate choose it?

For once, in Omi's entire disbelief, Nagi flushed pink. He tilted his head down, but it was evident that his face was colored with a hue of cherry.

"Wow."

"Yes…?"

"Never mind that wow," Omi said. It seemed to Nagi that he wanted to slap himself for ruining the moment. "So, we'll meet again someday?"

"Perhaps…"

They smiled at each other, and then turned away to face the opposite direction. Turning back, Nagi looked directly into Omi's blue eyes.

"I'll let you know when I can make it."

_____________________

"You're back early tonight."

Nagi had just stepped through the door, before a redhead greeted him. Hurriedly wiping that silly smile off his face, he turned to stare at the other man. "Is that a problem?"

"Why, no, no!" he cooed in return, his voice thick with his German accent. "Oh, what is that in your hands?"

"A box."

"Given to you by a girl?"

"No," Nagi was glad that he need not lie this time. The redhead smirked evilly.

"Well then, was it given to you by a boy?"

Nagi turned red very suddenly. "It's none of your business," he replied coolly. As he sauntered towards his room, he heard another person chuckle. Nagi spun around. It had come from his mad Irish teammate. It didn't sound psychotic, though, but it was strangely pleasant, seemingly understanding and knowing. He turned back to his bedroom, but he heard the words clearly.

"Little boys grow up so fast."

He shut the door silently, and flung himself onto the bed. In front of him, gently he laid the gift-wrapped box. He slowly untied the ribbons, not meaning to damage the package, and then removed carefully the gift-wrap. The lid was lifted, and in it, he found, to his delight, rows of dark chocolate. They were the very same ones that he had observed were gone from the shop display.

Picking one up, he bit into it. As he had suspected before, they were bitter. But stuffing the whole piece into his mouth, he soon realized that within it oozed a sweet liquid, like red rum boiled in honey and black cherries. The chocolate was bitter, but inside, it was filled with sweetness of a foreign country.

Bitter, yet sweet.

Nagi smiled, as he finally understood the message folded in the box of chocolates. This was Omi's perception of him, and it was not entirely wrong.

But whether this romance would blossom into a bittersweet one; that shall be in yet another story to unfold.

~+~ The End ~+~

(1) Dry ice is simply a term given to block carbon dioxide. It's very, very cold, and when defrosted, it changes back swiftly into gas. I know what it is, because we've used it to preserve my grandmother's body in her coffin when she passed away. Morbid, but I learnt a lot from that, I guess. I miss her. Don't we all miss the deceased? I'm writing this piece in winter. Spring will come, and that will be the anniversary of her death.

Note: Ah! My first and probably last fic on this series. Speaking about chocolates, I found out that it prevents cancer. I have a fetish for these chocolates, those with wine and rum inside! They _are_ bitter outside, but they're wonderful! And speaking about festivals, I don't like them much either. I stay home most of the time and read a lot of fanfiction. Those are the times I give plenty of feedback!

Lastly, please tell me how badly written this is. I'm so sorry, Chris, I really know NUTS about what I'm writing! I'm a worm! I really am! Mwwwwwwwwwoooooooaah!

PS: I'll try to do another one on how Nagi takes it, if you help me again. ^///^ Maybe if someone else wanted, too, of course… Heh…


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